There are losses that change the course of a life so completely that “before” and “after” stop feeling like abstractions. They become borders you cross without consent.
Losing two teenage sons to suicide in the same calendar year is such a loss. It is the kind of tragedy that reshapes time, identity, and expectation. Nothing returns to what it was. And nothing about the grief is tidy or resolved.
For a long time, survival itself felt like the only objective.
But eventually—slowly, unevenly—a quieter question emerged: What now? Not in a hopeful or aspirational sense, but in a practical one. There were younger children still watching how adults respond when the unthinkable happens. There was a business still employing people, serving clients, and requiring leadership. Life, indifferent to devastation, continued to ask for participation.
Grief does not disappear. It integrates. It becomes part of the fabric of how you move through the world. The choice is not whether it will shape you—it will—but whether it will solely define you.
For me, the answer had to be no.
Not because the pain lessened.
Not because healing reached a finish line.
But because surrendering the rest of life to tragedy would have granted it more power than it deserved.
Leadership after loss looks different. It is less performative, less ego-driven, and far more grounded. It is rooted in responsibility rather than ambition. Some days, leadership meant simply showing up. Other days, it meant letting others carry more weight while I recalibrated. None of that was failure. It was adaptation.
Parenting younger children through grief required the same honesty. They did not need a version of strength that denied reality. They needed to see that pain and perseverance can coexist—that love does not fail simply because tragedy arrives, and that life remains worth engaging even when it has been irrevocably changed.
Over time, loss clarified what mattered and what did not. It stripped away trivial concerns and sharpened values. It became an impetus—not to brand grief, justify it, or turn it into a narrative of inspiration—but to live and lead with greater alignment, intention, and care.
The path forward has not been linear. Some days are heavier than others. But forward motion still exists. And choosing it—again and again—has become an act of quiet defiance against despair.
This tragedy will always be part of my story. But it is not the final chapter. The decision to continue leading, building, and loving fully is not made once—it is made repeatedly.
And in that decision, life continues to unfold—not unscarred, but still meaningful.
Notes From Real Life 